The model dame slid into my office. She looked like a
million bucks, dressed to the nines, from the top of her head to down to
her daintily shod toes. She had a long run in her stockings, which just served
to accentuate her gams. She had the self-assured air of a woman who knows
she can wear anything, and look good. A slight case of hat head told me she’d
lost her chapeau on the way over, but with the way everything below that
cowlick looked, who could complain.

She said she needed help, wanted to prove her innocence in the whole Awkward
Affair. She scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper and slid it across
my desk. Once I had the digits, I knew I was in position to make all the right
moves.

The following additional text appeared once the Dossier
meta had been solved:

“Yeah,” she said. “I wanted Awkward’s topper. Who
wouldn’t? That crimson’d bring out the blush in a dead
man’s cheeks. Guess that means Otto’s got a real use for
it now. But I didn’t have anything to do with that. I had a gig
that day. At the time of the murder, I was doing a fashion shoot crawling
all over a vintage Jaguar E-Series in the West Garage at Vassar and Mass
Ave.”